


Padawan's Price

by drsquidlove, MrsHamill, Telesilla



Category: Star Wars Prequel Trilogy
Genre: Canon Compliant, Dark, M/M, slut qui-gon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2002-01-11
Updated: 2002-01-11
Packaged: 2018-05-21 14:30:26
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,998
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6055024
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/drsquidlove/pseuds/drsquidlove, https://archiveofourown.org/users/MrsHamill/pseuds/MrsHamill, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Telesilla/pseuds/Telesilla
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He's out again. <i>Whoring.</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	Padawan's Price

**Author's Note:**

> For Ruth, even though she gave me the damn bunny in the first place. For Emu, because she's good for my ego and because she loved it and helped me polish it. For Gloriana, who made me take out the Americanisms. For Christi, who gave me the title. And especially for Fox, even though I disagreed with her.
> 
> Various sequels to Padawan's Price (also known as the Adventures of Slut!Qui and TalkDirty!Obi, by DrSquidlove and others), can be found [here](http://members.iinet.net.au/~tentacles/tpm/talkdirty2.html), because God Forbid there should be actual canon compliance!

He's out. Again. Whoring.  
  
No, I suppose my Master's not really whoring himself, not in the classical or strict definition of the word -- he doesn't take money. I don't think. But he does take on anyone, as far as I know. Any gender, any species, any kink. Sith take it. I wish I could stop thinking about it. Stop thinking about his beautiful body being treated as anything other than... well.  
  
I first found out about it when I was sixteen -- or perhaps seventeen. Actually, he'd been doing it since I was fifteen, at least, and who knows for how long before that? We'd had a rather stormy beginning to our relationship as Master and Padawan, and weren't actually on Coruscant for a few years after our vows. The second night after we finally returned -- after we had settled into new quarters and unpacked and purchased food and had laundry done and all the million little things that need attention when you return from a long trip -- he told me he'd be out for the evening, not to wait up, and he'd see me in the morning.  
  
That must have been the first time -- at least, the first time since taking me as Padawan. He never does it on missions. Only here, when we're in down time at the Temple.  
  
I have vague memories of hearing him come in near dawn that night. When I saw him -- at the luncheon table, since he never showed for breakfast -- he looked almost normal. But there were faint bruises on his wrists -- I saw them when he reached for the pot of cha. And he let me out of sparring that day. Said he had a lot of correspondence to deal with.  
  
Right. Correspondence.  
  
Since then, whenever we've been at the Temple, he goes out at least once a week. Sometimes two or three times a week. If he comes back at all, it's toward dawn. Once, he came in as I was having breakfast, which is how I found out how he dressed. He always wore his cloak, but I caught a glimpse of the studded leather -- and his boots were not the regular issue boots we all wear, but were black, and higher. I saw a bruise on his chin as he swept by the table, quickly heading for his room and the 'fresher, murmuring "Morning, Padawan" as he passed, in a voice much rougher than I was used to hearing.  
  
But it was the smell that nearly knocked me off my seat. Alcohol and inhalants, yes, I expected that. But he smelled of other things too -- blood and semen, and strange, pungent secretions that I could only guess at.  
  
When I was sixteen or seventeen -- I truly don't remember, it might have been near my seventeenth name-day -- a group of Padawans managed to drag me out to a club. A place -- well, let's just say, a less than reputable place. There was dancing and drinking and smoking, and it was crowded and very dark, illuminated by brief flashes of strobe lights or reflections from various mirrors. The aim, of course, was to get me intoxicated with something and get me to lose my much-discussed virginity. I let them do their best, smiling as shyly as I knew how -- you don't get to be a Padawan without some acting skills -- and merely purged anything I didn't want from my bloodstream while enjoying the show. It was very late, and most of my companions were nearly under the table, when I saw _him._  
  
How had I missed him for so long? He was dancing near the periphery of the dance floor, dressed in some totally outlandish black leather outfit that left most of him open to the air. Which was a good thing, since he was bathed in sweat, and his hair dripped with it. I sharpened my eyesight and noticed that there were bruises on him again, and bites too. All over his body. And I could see virtually his whole body through that harness-thing he wore.  
  
He was dancing with two -- well, I'm not sure what the denizens of Apazia are called. Apazoids? They only look partially humanoid, with their vestigial tails, extra nipples and hermaphroditic genitals. Of course, they were wearing nothing but their short fur and wide belts, and one of them appeared to be trying to fuck Master even as it danced with him. I watched, both mesmerized and appalled, as they ground themselves together and finally inched their way off the dance floor to one of the private corridors.  
  
They were gone quite a while. I know because I stayed and watched -- I couldn't _not_ watch now. Even after the two -- whatever they are -- left, he didn't show. Not for a while. But finally, he emerged from the corridor, walking carefully, and made directly for the bar. Within fifteen minutes and three drinks, he was back on the dance floor, gyrating and sweating, lost in a group of drunken Correllians.  
  
I had to leave after that.  
  
But I came back.  
  
I found out -- and I don't want to think about how -- that he frequented that particular place. And I found out that the private rooms in the back didn't have to be completely private. So, a couple of times, I followed him -- discreetly, ever discreetly; I am Padawan Kenobi and a master at dissembling, after all. For a fee -- one I could hardly afford, but which I managed to scrape together -- I was allowed into the room next to the one he had rented. Yes, he rents the rooms, in advance, for the whole night. No wonder he can only do this once or twice a week at most. We cannot be termed as wealthy, individually.  
  
I stayed in that room and watched most of the night. I watched a parade of intoxicated beings fuck and be fucked by my Master. I watched as some of them tied him up and took turns using the various orifices in his body. I watched as he was whipped and paddled and scored, and watched as he even, occasionally, climaxed. Needless to say, I was tightly shielded.  
  
Twice, watching this, was all I could take. Plus, it is difficult to orgasm so many times in an evening, after all, even when you are young. Both times, I left a huge stain on the wall next to the peephole and a tip for the cleaning, and returned to the Temple to meditate.  
  
Despite what my fellow Padawans -- and maybe even my Master -- believe, I am not a virgin and I am hardly inexperienced. I take pains to ensure that facade is maintained; I'm not entirely sure why, but there it is. I do enjoy sex -- especially with a partner who is discreet, willing, and open to new things -- but that's not many beings. Certainly, there's no one in the Temple that I feel comfortable enough with to test out my -- well, shall I say, my appetite for experimentation? With a partner who is caring, sex becomes making love, which is far better than just sex. But what Master was doing wasn't making love, it wasn't even sex -- it was fucking, pure and simple. It was animalistic, raw, unbelievably erotic, and I didn't understand it a bit.  
  
Why was he doing this to himself? I can imagine a need in him; I've had similar needs myself, especially after a nasty mission. I know that we're very much an ascetic bunch, releasing the harsher and stronger of our emotions to the Force, but there are times when merely _releasing_ them wasn't enough. Could that be it? Could my Master, my strong, urbane, unflappable Master be trying to purge the horrible things we've had to see and do on our missions?  
  
I wanted to stop it. I wanted him to... I didn't know what I wanted him to do, precisely. Meditation didn't seem to want to give me any answers. So I took to watching him carefully, looking for any of the signs that he was about to boil over, that he was beyond serenity's grasp. Looking for a correlation between what was happening with him to when his nights out happened. What I discovered rather astonished me. But I was, by then, older -- twenty-three, to be precise -- and as a child, I can see how it might have slipped my notice.  
  
He wasn't stretched too thin. Nor was he too wound up from too many missions, or fighting to keep his equanimity. He was watching me.  
  
He was _watching_ me.  
  
He was watching _me_.  
  
And the look in his eyes as he watched me was so indescribably _hungry_ that it simply staggered me. It took me only a little while to put together; how his nights out frequently corresponded with intense work-out sessions with me, or some other situation that put us in close physical contact. I had totally missed it; I had written him off as unattainable and sublimated my urges another way when all along, he had been wanting -- me.  
  
We're about to go on yet another of those interminable missions; we leave tomorrow, in fact, which is why he surprised me by going out. I don't expect he'll be out late tonight, so he'll have enough time to recover fully before we leave. And the fact that he can't stay there late is why, when we return, I know that within a day or so he'll be back at the club. Yes, he surprised me this time, but the next time...  
  
Next time, his first dance partner, the first person that will accept him, will be the person he apparently least expects -- me.  
  
I've already picked out what I will wear, and it compliments that sluttish leather he wears perfectly. I plan on taking him, grabbing him from whomever he's dancing with, and grinding myself against him. I'll keep him from talking, somehow, keep him from leaving by whatever means necessary, up to and including a Force suggestion. Actually, I'm sure a good hard pinch somewhere delicate will give him an excellent idea of what I'm capable of, of what I can give to him. If he wants it.  
  
And he wants it, oh, he wants it -- of this I'm quite sure. He wants it and he doesn't think he can have it, for whatever reason. Ah! How blind we've both been. Neither of us has been a strict follower of the all-vaunted Jedi "Code", so his reticence must stem from how he perceives me, just as I wrote him off as cold and untouchable. He must see the prim and proper Padawan, the good and kind-hearted soul who eagerly and naively seeks the approval of his Master and the Temple. He doesn't see beneath, where I smolder -- for him. Maybe I can begin to show him -- maybe I can add a bit of a swagger to my walk, stand a little closer than I normally do, give him a few innuendos, look at him in a way I hope will indicate my desire.  
  
He's _my_ Master. Mine. And I don't share. I can give him what he wants, what he craves. I can tie him up and torment him. I can beat him and cut him and I'm really quite good with a whip. I can use my lightsaber on him, or his, or both of them. I can fuck him until his brains come out his cock or until he begs and screams for release.  
  
Oh, yes, I'm quite inventive. I can top him effectively, and even be topped by him, if that's what he wants. And, truthfully, I wouldn't mind being topped by him. He's well-endowed, and I've always been something of a size queen.  
  
But he has to understand... he's _mine_. And I don't share.  
  
Yes, that's my plan. As soon as we return from this mission to Naboo. He's about to find out just how hard I can stake a claim.

end


End file.
